


Time Heals Some Wounds

by TresSpaceAce



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Healer!Lance, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Iverson is a jerk, Langst, Slavery, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-04 14:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TresSpaceAce/pseuds/TresSpaceAce
Summary: “An emergency healing?” Lance felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over and settle on top of his already mounting fears. There was no way he could perform the level of healing any emergency would call for. Not so soon after a healing session like the one he’d just had. “But I…” he smothered the protest at a withering look from Iverson.“Do I need to do it myself?” Iverson asked meaningfully, pressing a finger to an intricate, twisting tattoo on the back of his left hand. Lance felt an answering twist in his gut at the gesture, his breath gone from his lungs. He clenched his own gloved left hand hard enough to bruise.Then shook his head mutely.Iverson returned his right hand to his side. “Good.” He said, satisfied. And Lance set to work.OrAn AU where Lance is a healer enslaved by the state for past crimes against humanity and under the care of Iverson. Then enter the Paladins, who formed Voltron without him.





	1. Chapter 1

Lance woke with a jolt, blinking away sleep and peering into the indiscernible darkness around him. His whole world shook, and it took him a groggy, dizzying moment to realize the rhythmic hum he heard was the hover engine of the transport vehicle propelling them swiftly down the road. Through the midnight-dim windows, he could see a thick forest of trees blurring past on either side, distorted even further by droplets of rain bursting apart and sliding sideways as they hit the outer surface of the transport.

 

If the position of the Moon was anything to go by on this planet, they were headed due East.  Right. He’d forgotten. They were on the road to...actually, he didn’t know where. Which was strange. Say what you would about his master, but the man usually allowed Lance time to recover from a job before carting him off to his next one. The miserly man wouldn’t dream of risking his exhausted healer leaving costly mistakes in his wake, after all.

 

The last thing Lance could remember, though, was collapsing after a particularly gruelling healing session in a countryside village that had been infected with plague. He didn’t normally let himself get so depleted when he was working a healing, but the pained, desperate eyes of the villagers had compelled him to push himself to his limits for _just one more_ patient until they’d begun to blur together into one massive, sickly organism through which his magic struggled frantically to heal. Had he even finished what his master had contracted him out to do? What if he’d made a mistake? He shivered, dread rising like acid from the pit of his stomach. He’d been a shaking, barely coherent mess toward the end there, that much he did remember.

 

But no, his master would never allow that.

 

“ _Boy_ ,” Lance jumped at the bark of a voice in his ear and looked up into the baleful face of his master, who loomed above him as if summoned - demon that he must be - by Lance’s mere thoughts. _Iverson_. Despite Lance’s own considerable height, the older man towered over him, and was padded to nearly twice Lance’s bulk in pure muscle. Not that it twas hard to outbulk Lance’s lanky build, anyway, no thanks to his minimal rations. Judging from the barely contained violence in the man’s eyes, this was not the first time he’d tried to get his attention.

 

Lance started again when he realized he was doing nothing but staring up blankly. He shrank back unconsciously. “Yes, master Iverson?” he asked as evenly as he could manage, the cloudiness of his drowsiness quickly burned away by pulse-thumping nerves.

 

“I said ready yourself for another healing,” Iverson said, surprising Lance by ignoring his infraction, however slight, and getting straight to the point. “We’ve been contracted for an emergency healing in T minus five.”

 

“An emergency healing?” Lance felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over and settle on top of his already mounting worries. There was no way he could perform the level of healing any emergency would call for. Not so soon after a session like the one he’d just had. “But I…” he smothered the protest at a withering look from Iverson.

 

“Do I need to do it myself?” Iverson asked meaningfully, pressing a finger to an intricate, twisting tattoo on the back of his left hand. Lance felt an answering twist in his gut at the gesture, his breath gone from his lungs. He clenched his own gloved left hand hard enough to bruise.

 

Then shook his head mutely.

 

Iverson returned his right hand to his side. “Good.” He said, satisfied. And Lance set to work.

 

Closing his eyes against the outside world and his master’s distracting menace, Lance reached deep into his core where his magic lie. It was ridiculous, he knew, and Iverson had told him enough times, but, in his mind’s eye, his magic was a living, feline thing. Finicky and temperamental as its analogous animal at times. But just as soothing and calming as he imagined a physical feline could be. Still, it was an inseparable part of him. It took more coaxing than it would have if he’d been fully recovered, but Lance was relieved to feel that his reserves weren’t nearly as shallow as he’d been afraid they were. Maybe, if he was lucky, the emergency wouldn’t be too emergent, and he’d be able to pull this off somehow. Or perhaps he could stretch his reserves long enough to stabilize whoever needed his abilities, then return after some rest to finish the job.  

 

He could hardly believe Iverson had agreed to an emergency healing at all. He’d seen first hand how little Iverson cared for the healing needs of those without much coin to spend. If he’d agreed to this healing, it had to be for someone important. And Iverson knew it would be risky with how recently and extensively Lance had healed the plagued villagers, so it would have to be someone disgustingly important. Or filthy rich. The more Lance thought about it, the more he was sure this wasn’t going to end well.

 

He gasped at a sting of pain in this left hand, heart plummeting, only to realize he’d dug the nails of his right hand hard enough into the thin glove of his left to break skin. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He needed to get a grip, or he’d wind up endangering his already slim chances of fulfilling his duty today.

 

He concentrated on the steady thrum of his magic now running through his veins. When he was younger, he used to imagine the feeling was the deep rumble of a purr. Now he knew better, of course, but the idea still comforted him.

 

Lance was so focused internally that he wasn't prepared when their transport slammed to a halt, throwing him against his seatbelt. Years ago, the action would've broken his hold on his magic, but long practice helped him cling to it now. He looked up at his master, who nodded permission before he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached to open the door.

 

Stinging cold rain assaulted him when the transport door slid open. The wind whipped it into a frothing frenzy that flew almost horizontally into the passenger compartment of their transport. In a matter of moments, Lance’s front half was as soaked as it would've been if he'd laid down under a waterfall. For one wild, ridiculous moment, he couldn't help but revel in it.

 

“Move!” Iverson’s harsh voice cut through the howling wind and rain, and his boot sent Lance sprawling out of the transport and into the squelching mud outside. Iverson stalked out past him, not even stopping to make sure Lance followed. His eyes were fixed on the 3D map projected above his wrist. Lance scrambled to follow him, pulling his legs away from the suction of the mud and doing his best to wipe away the sopping mess now covering his forearms with the help of the torrent around them.

 

It was rough going, and Lance wasn't sure how Iverson was making look so easy, but soon enough they came upon a metal cabin nestled in the trees off the road a ways. The building was small, almost like a shack, and most likely only had enough space for one decent sized room inside. “‘Knock exactly seven times…”’ his master read aloud from the comm message now projecting from his wrist. He sounded doubtful. Lance didn't blame him, this whole situation was doubtful if you asked him. Not that anyone ever would. But it was becoming clear that their current contractors were both desperate and paranoid.

 

After a moment of consideration, though, his master knocked loud enough to be heard even over the constant roar of the weather.

 

Almost before the last knock was finished, the door cracked open, a line of light extending out into the darkness outside. Lance caught sight of a grim faced, strong-jawed man peering out at them, a tuft of white hair hanging limply over his brow. His features were hard to make out with the light glaring out from behind him.  “Are you the the healer?” He asked Iverson, voice steady despite the tension in his posture.

 

“We are,” Iverson replied, and the man quickly opened the door more widely to allow them entry.

 

“Follow me,” he said, “She doesn't-I don't think we have a lot of time.”

 

And they did, Lance feeling spurred to move forward by the barely-there tremor in his last words. Iverson no doubt spurred by the usual no-nonsense complete-the-job-at-all-costs way he went about everything.

 

The man pulled aside a carpet on the floor, and Lance gasped at the sight of a hidden trap door underneath. The man glanced at him, as if just now noting his presence, then heaved open the door with one hand. From the way the door groaned and made the floor vibrate when it opened, it must’ve weighed a ton, but the man made it look easy. He pulled out a portable light, illuminating a stairway that led deep underground.

 

“Careful down here,” the man said as he led them down the steps, “There’s no guardrail.”

 

Despite his words, he set a brisk pace. Clearly his desire to reach the injured party outweighed his own caution. Iverson followed equally as fast, and Lance didn’t dare go slower. The steps took them down to a small hallway with multiple doors, these ones vertical. The man placed his hand to a scanner to the right of one of the doors. After a short moment, it emitted a soft beeping sound and Lance heard the locking mechanism disengage.

 

“In here,” the stranger said, holding the door open for Iverson and Lance.  Lance stepped in beside his master and stopped short at the sight of a group of people standing around a lavishly appointed bed. It wasn’t the first time he’d stepped into the bedroom of a wealthy personage on the brink of death, surrounded by anxious (and some less-than-anxious) relatives and friends. But the familiar tableau felt out of place in this secretive basement in the middle of the woods.

 

Four people stood around the bed, faces turned up at their intrusion. One small and light-skinned, another tall and red-haired. Another, large and bulky, but looking the most soft around the edges. They all wore expressions as grim as their guide into the basement, all with varying degrees of despair mingled with fear. The last of them, Lance noted, looked more angry than anything. His fists were clenched and shaking at this sides, his dark hair and brows shadowing his eyes. The expression made Lance’s insides twist with familiar unease.

 

The thing that scared him the most, though, was the hope in their expressions.

 

“Please, she’s in the bed,” their guide stepped around them, “I’ll show you where she was hurt.”

 

Lance might’ve stayed rooted in place if his master hadn’t given him a not so subtle push forward, and he followed to the bed. As they stepped forward, Lance was finally able to see what his previous vantage point hadn’t revealed. A woman dressed in elegant robes lay passed out in the bed, long white hair made lank by illness splayed out around her face. Sweat glistened on her brow and her face hollow and haggard looking. Her was ragged and seemed to take great effort even in sleep. Lance could feel his hopes for success dwindling.  

 

Already, with his magic gathered close to the surface, he could feel the angry hot sensation of an injury emanating from her stomach beneath the covers. Lance knelt by the bed and reached toward it without thinking. He felt his own stomach sinking as he let his consciousness delve further from himself and into detecting the woman’s ailment.

 

The wound was days old, at least, and he could feel attempts to treat it in the threads holding her skin together, a horribly old-fashioned and painful way to try and close a wound. The only way Lance could imagine someone attempting such a treatment was in the most dire of circumstances. The attempt to heal her hadn’t been enough, unfortunately. Whether through neglect or pure bad luck, the wound had festered, and sickness had set in. He could feel its grotesque tendrils seeping from the wound and into the rest of the her body. He couldn’t detect a single untainted particle of her body.

 

“What are you doing?” Abruptly, Lance felt his hand pulled away from the woman’s stomach, and he had to blink to keep from stumbling backward. It could only have been moments since he’d reached forward and touched the woman’s stomach, but he already knew all he needed to know. He realized with a start that it was the angry-looking man.

 

“Keith,” their guide said in warning to the angry-looking man, who immediately let go of Lance.

 

“I’m-I was…” Lance stammered, trying to focus on the angry man despite the constant throbbing of the woman’s wound in the periphery of his consciousness. He was just glad the woman was asleep. If she was awake, she would’ve been in agony.

 

“He was just assessing her,” his master cut in, his voice patronizingly calming. No doubt he thought he sounded sincere, though. “He operates through touch.”

 

“You’re not the healer, then?” the man with the white tuft of hair asked his master, sounding surprised.

 

“Wait, are you a dark magic based healer?” the smaller person to Lance’s left asked, “I’ve heard stories but I never thought...:”

 

“No, I’m not the healer,” Iverson said, used to the question by now, “This one is,” he indicated Lance, “And yes, his abilities are based in dark magic, but you need not fear any malicious subterfuge on his part, I keep him in check.” He tapped the tattoo on the back of his left hand, showing it to the others, and Lance suppressed a shudder.

 

The others gaped at Iverson in confusion, but the smaller one looked anything but comforted by the proof of Iverson’s control over his powers. He wondered if this group even knew what it did. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge, as it was rarely used. Death was usually the punishment for what Lance had done. The small one’s eyes were narrowed as he studied the tattoo, concerned.

 

“Shiro,” he said, “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

 

“We’re the last people who should be judging those with magic,” their guide, Shiro apparently, replied to him, and Lance glanced back up in surprise.

 

“No, that’s not what I mean,” the smaller one said, “That tattoo, it-” his words were cut off at a moan from the woman on the bed. Lance winced at the flare emanating from her wound. Everyone in the room turned toward her, color draining from their faces.

 

“I’m not too picky about how he does it, as long as it saves Allura,” the larger one piped up, his voice tight with anxiety. Lance could feel roiling nausea radiating off the man. He was surprised he didn’t look more of a wreck with how he was apparently feeling.

 

“Hunk’s right,” Keith said, apparently over his initial suspicion of Lance if it meant saving the woman, “Beggars can’t be choosers, and we’ve tried everything else.”

 

The small one sat, shooting an inexplicably angry expression in Iverson’s direction, and Lance’s brows furrowed in confusion. Finally, he spoke, but it sounded like the words were being pried like festering teeth from his mouth, “Fine. I don’t like this, but for Allura’s sake…” he trailed off, eyes landing on the convalescent woman.

 

“Please, young man,” the red haired man spoke for the first time, his voice surprisingly gentle as he looked at Lance, “Will you save her?”

 

His eyes reminded him of the desperate parents in the village they’d just visited, and Lance felt the tug on his heartstrings. “Yes,” his stupid mouth said before he could think better of it. “I mean,” he amended, trying to mitigate the damage he’d just done, “I’ll do my best.”

 

“He’ll do it,” Iverson said, eyes narrowed at Lance, “He knows the price of failure.”

 

“Your best is all we can ask for,” the older man said, pulling Lance’s gaze back toward him, and nodded at Lance encouragingly. Lance took strength from the show of faith, however misplaced and turned back to the injured woman.

 

He pulled away the covers and placed both hands on her abdomen this time and closed his eyes. It was easy to fall back into the vividness of his magical senses. Sometimes, rebelliously, he wondered how something so helpful and comforting could be evil. But he knew those thoughts were just the magic trying to twist him, so he ignored them.

 

First he set about easing her pain. A relaxed body was always easier to treat, after all. He let the cool, soothing presence of his magic seep from this fingertips and into the source of her pain. It spread from the wound to the rest of her body, much like the illness had, until it reached all the way to her toes, and he could feel her relaxing, even in unconsciousness, at the relief from pain. He felt in the tightness of her muscles that she had been in pain for quite some time. Briefly, he wondered how or why she had endured so long to reach this crisis point.

 

He didn’t relieve the constant ache permeating her entire body, he simply didn’t have the magic to waste. Instead, once he’d brought her pain down to a more manageable level, he steeled himself to attack the source of her illness. Unlike the coaxing of the body through its natural healing process that he usually would do for a wound, treating this illness required an offensive strategy on his part.

 

Before he could even start on the wound, he needed to eradicate any remains of the illness. He was just afraid he didn’t have enough in him to manage even that.

 

He spent a brief moment focusing himself, breathing in and out deeply, until he had his sights fixated solely on the affliction. Aiming carefully at the illness alone, he sent in a burst of power. He felt the woman’s back arch beneath him but couldn’t afford to lose his concentration, the illness was already fighting back with a vengeance. He set about creating walls around the the wound, cutting the disease off from the rest of the body so he could focus his attention at its core.

 

The illness writhed violently against Lance’s barriers, and he could almost imagine it was a screeching, poisonous snake, his own magic roaring its defiance in response. It was much stronger than Lance had expected, rending cracks in his barriers almost faster than he could repair them. For a long, heartstopping moment, it was all he could do to hold them up against the illness’s onslaught. The woman was letting out small whimpers of pain and he silently apologized for his shoddy work.

 

After awhile, though, Lance began to sense it tiring. He took the first opportunity he saw to launch his own offensive, pouring more energy than was wise into one unavoidable burst. He paused, breath bated, to see if it had worked. To his horror, the illness, while clearly damaged, was still moving within his barriers. It’s attempts to break them were weaker, but so were the barriers themselves. Panicking, Lance pulled all his now dangerously low reserves into reinforcing the barriers.

 

Distantly, he could feel that he was panting, sweat mixing with the chill of the rainwater soaked through his clothing to his bones.

 

He racked his brain for what he should do, afraid that if he launched another attack, the barriers would weaken too much to prevent a breach, but knowing that inaction for too long would most likely lead to their collapse anyway. Nothing for it, then, he just had to make this last shot count.

 

Swallowing hard and fighting to control his now shaking limbs, he pooled the remainder of his reserves to his fingertips, scraping up the last dredges of his magic. When he finally had enough, he pulled the magic of the barriers back into his fingertips too. The illness immediately tried to rush to its freedom, almost gleeful. Without waiting to think about just how bad an idea this was, Lance let his magic loose with everything he had.

 

There was nowhere for the illness to escape to now, its severed tendrils already dying away, and its core consumed by Lance’s magic. He shoved everything he had into cleansing the woman’s body, making it uninhabitable for the illness. He’d swear he heard its dying screeches of terror, before, finally, its struggles died down, withering to nothing. Lance finally allowed himself to relax his assault, his vision dimming as he struggled to retain consciousness. Which was a mistake.

 

Before he could force his now exhausted magic to react, the illness slipped in, gliding on the magical connection Lance had formed with the woman and straight into his own body. His whole being convulsed with revulsion at the invasion. Never in his years of healing had an illness behaved in this way. The only thing that ever tried to counter him was- Lance stopped short, feeling like an idiot.

 

Poison. It was poison, not an illness. Some poisons, especially magical ones, behaved an awful lot like illnesses, and like it was his first time healing, Lance hadn’t even thought to double check. Already, he could feel it burrowing into him, working to replicate itself. Not as fast as it would have before his attack on it, but certainly with determination. Fortunately for Lance, his magic worked as a natural defense against just this sort of thing.

 

Unfortunately for him, his magic was all but gone now.

 

He barely felt himself slip off the edge of the bed to the floor. The last thing he sensed before he lost consciousness was the sound of voices raised in alarm around him.

 

\-----

 

To Coran’s everlasting shame, the first thing he did when the healer fell to the floor was rush to Allura’s side. “Princess,” he said smoothing away her hair from her face, surprised at how much cooler her brow already was. _No more fever?_ Her cheeks were flush with healthy color he hadn’t seen there in days and her breathing was even and deep. It was unbelievable how much better she was in a matter of minutes. After weeks of attempts to help her with no results. It was nothing short of miraculous. A commotion to his side reminded him of just who he had to thank for saving his charge.

 

“Hey, I was checking on him!” Pidge protested, “You can’t just pick him up like that!”

 

He turned to see the large man, Iverson according to his earlier communications with them, bending down to throw the unconscious healer over his shoulder. He didn’t take particular care with the young man, who let out a small moan. He could see the young man was shivering, though whether it was from the cold of his soaked garments or the exertion of performing miracles was beyond Coran’s expertise. Perhaps a bit of both.

 

“I trust you’ll send the other half of your payment to the account as we discussed,” the man said without a hint of particular worry. He didn’t seem concerned that his charge was clearly the worse for the wear.

 

Coran felt his jaw drop, and noted the similarly incredulous expressions of his fellows. Even Keith looked nonplussed, his eyes drifting to the young man, then back up to Iverson with a scowl.

 

“What about him?” Hunk said, pointing to the young healer, his brows creased with concern, “He doesn't look so good.”

 

Iverson glanced to the young man on his shoulders. “He’ll be fine.”

 

“He doesn’t look fine,” Pidge’s voice was acid, “He needs to be cared for, not thrown over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes.”

 

“His current state is his own fault,” Iverson said, shrugging, “The boy failed to take necessary precautions and is suffering the consequences. It’s none of your concern,” he turned to Coran, “What _is_ your concern is making sure I receive my payment. I’d hate for word of your location to reach unfriendly ears.”

 

Coran reigned in his building anger, struggling to keep hold of his sense of reason. “With all due respect, sir, with the weather being what it is, might it be better to allow him to recover here before you’re on your way?”

 

“Yes,” Shiro said from his side, sharing a meaningful look with Coran, “It’s the least we can do for what you’ve done for us.”

 

Coran kept his expression perfectly civil. Pidge looked ready to argue, but at a look from Shiro, kept silent. Keith stared intently, hand to the blade at his side. Hunk was wringing his hands, clearly preparing himself for the worst.

 

Iverson eyed them all, as if gauging just how much of a threat they were, then relaxed his posture. “I could do with a proper night’s sleep,” he said with false friendliness, all previous intensity gone.

 

“Great,” Shiro said, “You can use mine. We unfortunately don’t have any spare rooms.” Coran kept his face neutral at Shiro’s blatant lie. They most certainly _did_ have a spare room. Two of them, actually. He was silently relieved when none of the others contradicted him, though. _I’ll keep an eye on him,_ Shiro’s expression said. “I have a couch for the healer. I don’t mind the floor.”

 

Iverson laughed as he followed Shiro out into the hall and toward Shiro’s room. “Kind of you, but I’m former Garrison; I can handle the couch and the boy prefers the floor…” Coran heard the man say before the door closed behind the two.

 

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let them stay the night?” Keith asked, arms crossed from Allura’s bedside. “It’s bad enough we let strangers in here in the first place.”

 

“That young man saved Allura’s life,” Coran said, and he couldn’t keep the scolding tone from creeping into his voice, “Shiro was right when he said it was the least we could do.”

 

Looking properly chastised, Keith let out a huff and turned to check on Allura. He pulled up her bandages to check on the wound, his eyes narrowing. “Some healer,” he said in disgust, turning to head out the door, “She’s still wounded! I should’ve known that ‘magic healer’ crap was bulshit.”

 

Hunk stopped Keith before he could leave. “Wait, Keith-”

 

“Let me go!” Keith said, struggling, “I have to warn Shiro!”

 

Pidge was already at Allura’s side checking beneath the bandages for herself with a worried expression on her face. “Do you really think…was he just acting?”

 

Coran felt the blood drain from his face, rushing to Allura’s side. He hadn’t thought to check her wound. Had he let himself be fooled? But no, he’d _seen_ the difference afterward. The dramatic change was undeniable. As was the way the young man’s hands had glowed with a cool blue light, the energy seeming to drain out of him with each passing moment before he’d collapsed.

 

“Hold on for just a tick!” Coran shouted, loud enough to startle everyone into silence. “Take a closer look. Allura was at death’s door moments ago. Look at her now.”

 

Pidge did as she was told, and Keith reluctantly turned to do the same, Hunk following suit. “Her fever’s gone, and the wound is clean now. We all know it wasn’t really the wound that was killing her, but the poison. And it looks like the effects have been cured.”

 

“You’re right,” Pidge said, running a hand through her hair, “I guess I just- after what happened with Nyma, my mind immediately….”

 

“It’s quite alright,” Coran said soothingly, “Even I was worried for a moment there.”

 

“He needs to finish the job,” Keith said, hanging stubbornly onto his anger, though Coran could see straight through the act to the haunted look in his eyes. “We can’t risk the injury getting infected on the way back to the castle. It’s _weeks_ of dangerous travel away from here. And we paid them for a full healing, not half-assed work.”

 

Hunk fidgetted. “I would feel better if she was healed all the way before we went back.” he said, looking at Coran.

 

Coran sighed, thinking of the sad state the healer had been left in after curing the effects of the poison, then thinking of the miserable, soul-destroying weeks of watching Allura slowly waste away before his eyes. “Perhaps….something can be arranged. We would need to ask the him directly if he could manage another healing.”

 

“He _did_ look pretty bad,” Hunk said, sounding guilty.

 

“Whatever we do, it can wait till morning,” Coran said, “We’re all tired. I think we should get some rest and confront this issue head on in the morning.”

 

None of them looked especially happy at the thought, but no one objected. It was a testament to just how tired they all were. “I’ll stay here,” Coran said, “You three head to your rooms.”

 

With lingering worried looks in Allura’s direction, the three of them left, and Coran settled into the chair beside Allura’s bed, his head a swirling mixture of unhappy thoughts. It was a long time before he slept.

 

\----

 

Shiro couldn’t sleep, the sounds of the young healer’s whimpers from the floor impossible to ignore. On the couch, Iverson snored. Correction: Apparently it was possible for _some_ people to ignore. He’d tried to convince the man to let the Allura’s savior sleep on the bed, but he had started to grow irritated at Shiro’s insistence, and so he’d decided not to push it. He was afraid that if he did, the mercenary man would take enough offense to leave, young man in tow. At the very least, he’d managed a change of clothes for him.

 

Shiro jumped at a gasp from the floor, followed by heavy panting, then a groan. Shiro sat up, leaning over the bed to look down at the trembling mess below. He was gripping his stomach, his face tight with pain. He turned, as though trying to find a comfortable position, then stopped cold, eyes widening as they met Shiro’s.

 

“I-what? Where…?” He murmured, before shuddering and curling in around his stomach.

 

“What’s wrong?” Shiro whispered, glancing over at Iverson, who still snored in the corner. The healer glanced in the same direction, shoulders hunching, and looked back at Shiro, shaking his head.

 

“Come on,” Shiro coaxed gently, “That man will sleep through an explosion.” To Shiro’s surprise, the young man’s mouth twitched minutely at that, eyes dancing for the barest moment. “Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

 

The healer shot one more nervous glance at Iverson. “The poison,” he paused and gritted his chattering teeth for a moment, “It’s taking its revenge on me.”

 

Shiro’s eyes widened, “Does this happen every time you heal?”

 

“Not-not usually,” He ground out, “Was stupid. I’ll be f-fine. My magic will-will take care of it.”

 

Shiro finally slipped off his bed to the young man’s side, chest tightening, “What can I do to help?”

 

For a moment, the young man eyed him with pain-filled eyes, a glint of hope in his expression. Then he glanced back at Iverson and his eyes clouded. “No.” he said, “Nothing you can- _oh god”_ he choked down a whimper, his eyes shut tight against an apparent surge of pain.

 

Shiro reached out to him then, all concerns about how this Iverson would react pushed aside by his fear for the healer. To his surprise, the healer leaned into the touch, gripping his shirt with trembling fingers as his muscles spasmed. Shiro rubbed soothing circles in his back, wishing there was something more he could do. The young man’s skin was feverish, the shirt Shiro had lent him damp with sweat. He looked as bad as Allura had at her worst.

 

It took a moment for Shiro to notice the pull of something at his magic, and he started, pulling back to look at the young man. The tugging was insistent, almost begging, but not forceful. Like a hungry mewling kitten. If he put up even a minimal effort to guard his magic, the tugging would stop, he knew.

 

“Sorry,” the healer whispered, and there were tears at the corners of his eyes, “I’m sorry. I just…”

 

Then Shiro understood. It was the strange healer’s magic pulling at his own. He marvelled at how similar to the Paladin magic it felt. Wasn’t it supposed to be dark magic? But, this was how he could help, something he could do. After weeks of hopelessness, it was almost a relief. He didn’t even have to think about it, he just pushed, offering up his own magic to the healer without hesitation.

 

The young man took it in greedily, as if Shiro’s magic was water in an otherwise barren desert. It was so sudden that Shiro had a moment of fear that he’d made another awful, too-trusting mistake. His limbs started to feel weak, as if he’d just ran for an hour or more, but the young man’s expression smoothed out ever-so-slightly. Then healer looked up at him, and his eyes widened in horror. Abruptly the pulling on his magic stopped, and the healer jerked away from him, shoving a burst of magic back into him.

 

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” he murmured, still shivering. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking...”

 

“It’s okay,” Shiro said as the young man gripped his midsection, which clearly still pained him. “It’s alright. I’m happy to give what I can to help.”

 

“No, you don’t-you don’t understand,” he said, “I could’ve-I might’ve-” He couldn’t seem to finish, and just shook his head in mute horror. Just then another spasm wracked his body and the young man curled up on his side with another whimper.

 

Shiro tried to push more of his magic toward the healer, but a barrier now lay between their magic now. “Please. Don’t.” He said through chattering teeth, and Shiro didn’t know what else to do but respect his wishes.

 

Feeling helpless to do anything else, he scooped the younger man up and placed him on the bed. Iverson be damned, he wasn’t going to let him sleep on the floor in his current condition. The guy seemed too out of it by this point to protest, and his shivers seemed to lessen after Shiro placed a thick comforter over him. He stood, watching the healer until he seemed to settle back into a fitful sleep, and thought uncharitable thoughts toward the man still snoring on the couch.

 

He was too tired to know how exactly, but he was going to do something about this. It wasn’t right, the way Iverson treated the healer, and he couldn’t live with himself if he let it go on. For now, though, he needed his strength. He could already feel the weight of several sleepless nights weighing him down. So resolved, he settled on the floor near the bed, facing his body to Iverson, and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! And thank you for reading my fic! This is an idea I've had that I'm pretty excited about exploring. I hope you guys enjoyed and are interested in exploring this with me. This may get a bit dark, but tbh I prefer happy endings so...
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I live for feedback. Good or critical.
> 
> Also, I'm lame and I have no idea what to call this at this point. Any suggestions are more than welcome and will be credited in the summary if used. 
> 
> Thanks again and see you next chapter (hopefully)!
> 
> EDIT (03/22/18): Hi guys! Thank you very much for your comments/kudos! They really help keep me motivated. I just wanted to give you an idea of posting schedule for updates. My plan is to average 2 pages per day, and if all my chapters are similar in length to this one, that means it'll take me about 7 days average to write a chapter. So allowing for breaks/irl obligations/editing/revision in between, I'd say expect about 1 chapter every two weeks.


	2. Chapter 2

After about an hour of trying, Keith finally gave up on falling asleep. Normally, when insomnia held his rest hostage, he'd head to the castle’s training room to push his body past the point of exhaustion and fall blearily into oblivion. Unfortunately, the cramped space of their current hideout didn’t offer much room for combat training, and he’d thought he was already long past the point of exhaustion anyway. Apparently, he’d been wrong. 

 

He just couldn’t get past the image of Allura, normally a vibrant force of nature in her own right, lying frail and pale at nature’s mercy. There’d been plenty of moments up till now that he’d been sure she’d left them for death’s dubious embrace, chest imploding under the weight of his guilt, only for her to pull through. She should’ve been dead well before the healer had shown up, really. But somehow, even lying at death’s door, she’d clung stubbornly to life. 

 

If it hadn’t been for Keith, she never would’ve had to fight so hard to live in the first place. 

 

Only in the harrowing stretch following Allura’s fall had Keith been able to admit to himself that it was the stubbornness that he shared with Allura that had lead to this disaster. If he’d stopped to give Hunk’s words the consideration they deserved, maybe pushed a little less, they wouldn’t have gone to help the rebels. Maybe they would’ve scrutinized more, instead of rushing in at his emphatic plea for immediate action. 

 

“This is exactly the sort of thing we’re here for. How can we call ourselves Paladins if we don’t help when people need it?” He’d asked. Those were the words that had finally persuaded Allura to acquiesce. To agree to the mission that had led straight to their ambush. 

 

“Ah, Number Three,” Coran said, startling Keith out of his own head. He blinked, only just now realizing his feet had carried him to back Allura’s room. “You should be resting.”

 

“I...guess I can’t sleep. Not used to my bed.” Keith said, throat tightening as his eyes fell again on Allura.  _ My fault. _

 

Keith managed not to flinch at Coran’s gentle touch on his shoulder. He’d grown used to the man’s small shows of affection the longer he’d been around him, but right now he felt less able to accept them than ever. 

 

“I find the sofa to be quite comfortable,” Coran said, gesturing to the unoccupied couch on the wall facing Allura’s bed. Keith felt his eyes burn uncomfortably, gratitude an opposite, relieving force against the weight on his chest. 

 

“I think I’ll try that,” he said, settling into the plush cushion that was permanently imprinted with his shape by now.

 

Coran gave him an understanding smile, settling in next to him. A few moments later, Keith was released into sweet oblivion. 

 

\----

 

Lance woke to knives slicing into his gut, immediately wishing he could fall back into the bliss of unconsciousness. Curling onto his side, he pulled the plush fabric cocooning him up to his chin and burrowed further into the mattress beneath him. Just a few more minutes, he told himself, he just needed a few more minutes to build up enough nerve to really wake up. He was surprised Mom hadn’t come in to wake him. It had to be getting late, right? Maybe she’d decided to let him stay in bed sick and was already preparing some soup for him. 

 

He felt like he was floating, the bed beneath him a ship riding ocean waves. He paused, an icy stab of fear flinging his eyes open as his reality came crashing down with sickening force.

 

What was he doing in a bed? 

 

He couldn’t really remember a whole lot after his disastrous healing last night. He did remember, however blearily, being coaxed into dry clothes and trying uselessly to comply with rubbery limbs before passing out. One thing he was sure of, though, was that he’d very specifically been told to take the floor by Iverson. He’d remembered it because he’d almost let out a complaint in his delirious state. 

 

Just then, his master’s snoring stopped abruptly and Lance froze heart hammering. It had been little more than a barely registered background noise until then, but it’s sudden absence felt as loud as the knelling of an execution bell. His mind raced furiously to come up with excuses, any excuse, as to why he was on the bed. He could sometimes talk his way out of punishment given the right combination of a particularly generous spirit on Iverson’s part and some extra ingenuity on his own.

 

Luckily, though, his master’s snores started back up a few breathless moments later and Lance let out a sigh of relief. He still had time to save himself. He forced aching limbs into motion, ignoring the way his middle pulsed painfully in time with every nervous heartbeat. Something felt off somehow, beyond a mere backlash from healing poison. He’d have to examine his condition more closely later, but for now, hiding his discretion from his master took precedence. 

 

Biting back a grunt, he belly crawled to the edge of the bed, leg creeping over to find the floor. It took a moment, but as soon as he felt his toe brush against the floor, he used it and his trembling arms to push himself up into a standing position. Or at least, he tried too. Instead, just as his eyes registered the sight of the guide from yesterday halfway through what looked like a push-up, his foot pushed down, and it was too late for his shock-addled brain to stop the action. 

 

The man’s eyes widened just before the force of Lance’s foot on his back sent him downward with an  _ oof _ of surprise. Amazingly, it didn’t send him all the way to the ground, just far enough that his chest was less than a finger’s width off the floor. Lance, however, wasn’t so fortunate. When the “floor” suddenly dropped beneath his foot, he lost his already precarious balance and fell back against the edge of the bed. He bounced briefly on its thankfully forgiving surface before slipping down to land on the considerably less forgiving surface of the floor. 

 

He lay in a daze, trying to reorient himself as the reality of what he’d just done set in. 

 

He’d just  _ stepped on _ a contractor. Arguably assaulted them. The same contractor that had been important enough for Iverson to take a half-recovered Lance to a cabin in the middle of the woods in one of the worst storms in ages. Lance hadn’t meant to hurt him, of course. He hadn’t even used magic in this case, but Lance had learned the hard way that intent was irrelevant when the outcome was negative.  It would just be Lance’s dubious word against this man’s

 

“Hey,” suddenly, Lance felt hands at his shoulders, coaxing him up from the fetal position he hadn’t even realized he’d taken, “You okay? Is it your stomach? Does it still hurt?”

 

“I…” he stuttered, not sure what to say. The dark-haired man, Shiro, he thought he remembered him being called, seemed oblivious to the enormity of Lance’s error. Lance was both terrified of pointing out just how grave it was, and convinced if this was some sort of test of his integrity.  In the end, all he could choke out was, “Are  _ you _ okay?”

 

Shiro’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave Lance a relieved smile, “Me? I’m fine. No harm, no foul. I’m more worried about you.” He stood, offering a hand to Lance, “Let me help you up.”

 

Lance stared, open-mouthed at the proffered hand, glancing up at Shiro, then back down in surprise. With a start, he realized the arm wasn’t human, made completely out of some sort of artificial composite. He saw Shiro’s expression falter when he glanced up again, but the man quickly recovered with an even more inviting smile. Not willing to add offense to his list of wrongdoings against this man, Lance reached out slowly to accept his help. Every muscle in his body tense with the certainty that, at any second, the man would call him to task for his mistakes.

 

It didn’t happen at that moment, though. Shiro simply pulled him up with an ease that made much more sense now, only for Lance to double over at the renewed feeling of blades renting his middle open. Apparently, the mere act of standing was too much strain for his abused muscles. It was quite literally all he could do to focus on breathing, willing the black edges of his vision to retreat. He dimly became aware that the only thing keeping him upright at this point was Shiro’s help. 

 

“...need to sit,” he managed to say. Shiro moved to help him sit on the edge of his bed, and Lance shook his head more aggressively than he probably should have because his vision swam at the motion. “Not the bed,” he pleaded. His eyes flickered over to his master who was, miracle of miracles, still sleeping. Shiro followed his line of sight, eyes lighting with realization. His expression clouded with something Lance wasn’t sure he understood (or  _ wanted  _ to), but thankfully he complied.

 

He helped ease Lance down until he was sitting on the floor with his trembling back against the side of the bed, arm wrapped protectively around his middle. “Thank you,” he said as he let out a shaky breath. His pain was slowly subsiding back to a more manageable throbbing sensation. He had no idea how he was going to manage the trek back to their transport from here. Iverson had to be waking up any minute now, and he’d be eager to move on from here, Lance was sure. In fact, Lance was surprised he hadn’t woken up already. He was usually an early riser, a habit picked up from his Garrison days, Lance guessed. He must not have slept since before their last job. 

 

Shiro still lingered, hovering over him like Lance was some kind of patient rather than the State’s Healer. 

 

“Can I get you anything? Some breakfast, maybe?” Shiro asked, the crease of concern on his brow hadn’t softened. If anything, it had deepened. 

 

Lance finally realized what was going on here. Most of the time, he wasn’t allowed to linger after a healing, so he wasn't exactly used to the issue. Every so often, though, a misguided contractor would try to offer him something in return for healing themselves or their loved ones. They didn’t realize how inverted the situation was. Every healing he did was barely a drop in the bucket of decency to balance his darkness. 

 

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” Lance said softly so as not to aggravate his tender middle. 

 

“How about some water, then?” Shiro tried. Of course, now that Shiro mentioned it, Lance’s throat did feel dry. Still, he knew better than to acknowledge it. 

 

“No thanks, I just want to rest,” Lance said, letting the weakness he felt creep into his voice. That did the trick. Shiro’s face softened with understanding. 

 

“Alright then,” he said, “I’ll give you a little breathing room. I need to take care a few things, but I’ll be back.” Lance nodded and Shiro went to put on his boots before he slipped out the door, tossing one last worried glance in Lance’s direction. 

 

It would probably be wiser for him to be straightforward and explain the nature of his sentencing to avoid further awkwardness. Unfortunately,  a small, selfish part of Lance savored the illusion that Shiro’s kindness created for him. For one, brief moment, he could pretend he was a person who deserved that kindness. 

 

Lance had just let his eyes slip closed to turn his attention inward when he heard his master’s snoring stop again. This time, instead of resuming a few moments later, his snores stayed silent. Soon enough, Lance heard the couch creaking as Iverson shifted.  

 

“Hmmph, overslept,” his master muttered to himself, sounding disgusted. Lance steeled himself for the unpleasantness that would inevitably come. He could tell Iverson was already in an especially foul mood.

 

“Boy,” he said, more loudly, and Lance opened his eyes to see Iverson had sat up in the couch and was facing him.

 

“Yes, master Iverson?” Lance said, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his borrowed shirt.

 

“You still look damaged.” 

 

“It’s the poison, it..messed me up pretty bad,” Lance said, reluctant to go into details, but he knew what Iverson was really asking, so he added, “I don’t think I’ll be able to do another healing for at least a week.” 

 

“Damnit!” Iverson slammed his fist against the wall, and Lance flinched. “I should charge them extra for the losses this is going to cause.” Lance was guiltily glad the brunt of Iverson’s ire was directed away from him, however briefly.

 

“And you,” Iverson said, jabbing a finger at Lance and leaning down toward him. He should’ve have been surprised. “You were careless. You didn’t take the necessary precautions. If you had, you wouldn’t be dealing with the backlash. Don’t think you won’t face disciplinary action just because you’ve put yourself in this sorry state.”

 

“Of course not, Master” Lance said by rote, heart going numb as a cold dread settled in the hollows of his bones.

 

“It’s my job to see that your magic is put to good, honest use for the benefit of the state. I can’t do that if you insist on misusing your powers,” Iverson’s scowl deepened, “The way you’ve been pushing your limits lately, you’d think you were  _ trying  _ to prevent my good use of your magic.”

 

Lance’s eyes widened. “I would never-Please, Master, I didn’t do it on purpose.”

 

“It’s a shame, really,” Iverson continued without acknowledging him, shaking his head, “Sometimes, I’d swear you were trying, but your true nature never ceases to rear its ugly head. But we both know I didn’t manage to reform you to this point by being lax.”

 

Lance bowed his head, ostensibly in obeisance and acceptance, but he’d known from experience that he was no good at hiding his emotions. And right then, he was ashamed to admit, but his emotions reflected a distinct lack of the reformed humility his master had worked tirelessly to instill in him. Any outburst now would just be further evidence against him, but a hot flare of something dangerously close to indignation had lit in his chest at Iverson’s condemnation. Lance had failed miserably, he couldn’t deny that, but didn’t it matter that he’d tried?

 

“Still,” Iverson’s voice sent his treasonous thoughts scattering, “I don’t think this milktoast group of sorry diplomats are from around here. They clearly have some misguided notions about how you should be treated, and I don’t need any more problems than you’ve already caused.” His master reached unconcernedly into his coat to pull out one of his breath mints and Lance felt his stomach churn at the scent. “So I’ll be merciful. I’ll stay the implementation until you’ve recovered enough to heal yourself afterward. Ten lashes should be sufficient reminder.”

 

Lance’s heart slammed against his chest and he felt premonitory pinpricks of familiar pain down his back.  _ Ten lashes?  _

 

It was only when Iverson’s sledgehammer of a fist yanked him upward by his shirt collar that Lance realized he’d spoken out loud. He cried out, the forced motion stoking the embers of pain in his midsection to an inferno. For a moment, it was all he could do to grit his teeth, blind to anything but his pain and struggling for every shallow breath.. 

 

“Why do you always insist on trying my patience?” Iverson’s minty breath on his face brought bile to Lance’s already constricting throat, “I hope I don’t need to remind you that the only reason you’re still alive is because a State judge ruled I could make use of you for the good of the Coalition, so I took you on. Don’t make me regret it,  _ darkling _ .” A long time ago, Lance would’ve cringed at Iverson’s use of the derogatory term for the type of magic user he was. Now, though, he only cringed inwardly.

 

Iverson dropped him back to the floor then, and finally, mercifully, Lance fell into unconsciousness.

 

\-----

 

“Thank you, Hunk,” Shiro said, accepting the steaming plate from the team’s self-appointed cook and taking a seat in the cramped room they’d been using as a mess. He set to work cleaning his place as fast as he could manage. He could feel Hunk’s magic hover around him as he cooked, the yellow Paladin’s normally steady hum of power swirling restlessly. He chose to politely ignore it, not wanting to embarrass his teammate. He knew that he was more sensitive to the magic than the others and that Hunk likely didn’t even realize Shiro could feel it. He paused, considering. “Do you have anything easy on the stomach I can take to my room?”

 

Hunk’s brows knit with worry, “Why? Are you feeling okay?”

 

“Not for me,” Shiro assured, “It’s for our healer friend. He said he wasn’t hungry, but I think he should have something.”

 

“Oh man, is he still pretty bad?” Hunk asked, setting down the bowl of eggs he’d been mixing to give Shiro his full attention.

 

“Yeah,” Shiro said, “He said something about the poison from Allura’s wound getting its…’revenge’ on him.” Hunk gave Shiro a questioning look and Shiro shrugged. “I can’t claim to understand it, but I can tell his stomach’s giving him a lot of pain.”

 

“Say no more,” Hunk said, already rummaging through the emergency rations stored in the safehouse cupboard. “I have just the thing.”

 

Shiro felt a small bit of the tension in his shoulders dissipate. “Thank you.”

 

A few moments later, Keith stepped into the room, showered and dressed for the day, but Shiro didn’t miss the deep shadows circling his eyes. He could feel Keith’s own magic, sharp and electric, dancing just under his skin.To be honest, though, Keith’s magic almost always felt this way. “Morning,” the red Paladin said, perching himself on the edge of the seat next to Shiro, his whole body practically vibrating with tension. It was obvious he was anxious to get to business, but he waited until Hunk had set a plate in front of him too before turning to Shiro. 

 

“Coran said to talk to you about our game plan,” Keith said, and Shiro raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Game plan for what?” Shiro asked. Hunk looked at them with an expression of mingled worry and guilt. 

 

“About how we want to go about getting the healer to finish his job,” Keith said tersely. 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“That healer left Allura only half healed,” Keith said, and it was clear from his tone that he suspected ill intent. “She’s still wounded.”

 

“What?” Shiro asked, heart sinking. 

 

“She’s at least partially healed,” Hunk intervened, “The poison’s all gone, but the wound is still there.”

 

“Oh,” Shiro said, trying to sort his thoughts through a rush of fear and anxiety. “Is she doing well then?”

 

“Yeah, but-” Hunk started. 

 

“But we paid more than the Coalition can afford for a  _ full  _ healing Shiro, and they only gave us a job half done. We can’t risk it getting infected on the way back to the Castle of Lions and-”

 

“...And landing us back between the same rock and hard place as before,” Shiro finished, already seeing where this was going. 

 

“I-Exactly,” Keith stumbled over his words. He’d apparently been prepared to argue his point and was thrown off by Shiro’s easy agreement. He peered at Shiro, “So what I’m asking is: what’s our game plan?”

 

Shiro frowned. He thought of the healer, eyes laced with pain and fear. He couldn’t possibly ask him to subject himself to further risk. Not while he was still recovering. There was also the matter of his treatment under his guardian…or was it keeper? Shiro wasn’t sure exactly what Iverson’s role in the arrangement was, but it seemed disturbingly unconcerned with the healer’s well-being. 

 

Still, Allura had barely survived one sickness, even with all her reserves to start with. They’d exhausted their med supplies just keeping her a breath from death. He wasn’t optimistic about her chances of survival if her condition regressed.

 

Not for the first time, he thought about how little he enjoyed the honor of being the leader of Voltron. As always in moments like these, he wished he could talk to Allura. She’d been raised to be the leader of her planet and was a source of wise counsel he depended on. He just didn’t realize to what extent until she’d been taken out of commission. He’d have to show her his appreciation when - or if - they got out of this. 

 

“I don’t think the healer is capable of performing another healing,” Shiro said, “At least not anytime soon.”

 

“How is that our problem?” Keith asked, and Shiro finally looked at him directly. Did Keith really feel that way? Keith had the good grace to wince at Shiro’s hard expression.

 

“It’s our concern,” Shiro said pointedly, “Because another healing attempt like the last one might kill him. I don’t think Allura would appreciate us trading the life of a Coalition citizen for her own while she lay unconscious, do you?”

 

Hunk’s eyes widened into saucers. Keith’s darted away from Shiro’s, then back. “Well, then what do you suggest?” he asked, voiceless hard now, but still taut. 

 

“I...I’m not sure,” Shiro said honestly, hating the way Keith’s expression clouded at the words. 

 

“I think the solution is simple,” came a voice from the entryway, and they all looked up to see Coran had entered the room  His eyes were unnaturally bright with determination, though the droop of his mustache and shoulders suggested he could do with some convalescing of his own at the moment.“We take the fellows with us.”

 

“Wouldn’t that just make things riskier than they already are?” Hunk asked, genuinely perplexed. 

 

“They might, but I’ve had the whole night to brood over our situation while I brooded over the princess, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the situation calls for some extra risk if we hope to make it back home with our bodies and integrity intact..”

 

“How do you figure?” Shiro asked, unsure of where Coran was going with this, but more than happy to cling to the possibility of a plan.

 

“Keith is right, we are due a complete healing,” Coran nodded to Keith, “But I’m inclined to agree with your assessment of the situation with the young healer,” Coran said, nodding in Shiro’s direction, “So the only solution is to force them to accompany us until the boy is recovered enough to finish the job.”

 

“That way we’ll make sure he gets better, and we’ll have a back-up if Allura needs it.” Hunk said, enthusiasm slowly budding as he caught on to the direction Coran’s plan was taking.

 

“Great idea, but how are we going to convince this guy to do that?” Keith asked. Shiro knew him well enough to see through his outer dubiousness to the same tentative hope Hunk felt. 

 

Coran’s expression hardened, “We could make him,” he mused, but it was clear he didn’t put much stock in this idea, “Or we could offer him more money.”

 

_ “More _ money?” Keith and Hunk blurted out simultaneously, glancing at each other and looking supremely uncomfortable at the fact.

 

“Coran,” Shiro said, glancing at the door to the mess and lowering his voice, “We don’t  _ have _ any more money.” 

 

“Not as far as that pin hidling burr swine knows,” Coran hissed, and everyone in the room balked at the strength of Coran’s invective.

 

There was a beat of heavy silence, then, 

 

“Come again?” 

 

Hunk was the first to speak up, “I’m not sure what half of that means, but the only time I’ve heard you sound that angry was when you were talking about Zarkon.”

 

Coran sniffed. “I may be uneducated in the social customs of the planets in this system,” he said, “but I find his treatment of that young healer to be horrendous. And frankly, all I need to know to judge the content of his character.” 

 

Shiro felt a pang of relief at Coran’s blatant articulation of what’d he’d felt simmering under the surface but hadn’t quite been able to express. “Agreed.” Shiro said, “I’d argue it’s criminal.”

 

Coran nodded, understanding Shiro’s implied question. “Possibly. We need to know more about the situation.” 

 

“Why do you think the healer’s with him anyway?” Hunk asked, hands back to whipping up a batch of eggs with a little more force than was necessary. “They don’t look related or anything.”

 

“Hard to say,” Coran said, “Either way, right now I’d say our primary goal is to persuade our guests to stick with us.”

 

“Agreed,” Shiro said, just as Hunk pulled the concoction he’d been preparing for the healer from the oven. 

 

“Here’s - uh - here’s our new friend’s breakfast.” Hunk said, handing Shiro what looked like freshly baked bread. “It’s pretty bland, but it’s the easiest thing I’ve been able to stomach when I’m not feeling well.”

 

“Right on time,” Shiro said, “I’ll take this with me to speak with Iverson.”

 

“Brilliant idea,” Coran said, smiling wearily, “I’ll come with you.”

 

“No, you need to sleep before we head out,” Shiro said, “I can handle this.”

 

Coran looked ready to protest, visibly bristling at Shiro’s dismissal, then shook his head wearily. His whole body deflated. “You’re right. I may be more hindrance than help in my current state.Please wake me when it’s time to leave. Number Four is with the Princess if you need her.”

 

“Thank you,” Shiro said, gripping Coran’s shoulder, then turning to the others, “Everyone else, make preparations to leave. We don’t want to stick around any longer than we have to.”

 

His fellow Paladins nodded in return, Hunk’s muscles loosening while Keith’s spine stiffened. Shiro squared his shoulders and let steel strengthen his resolve. He was not looking forward the conversation ahead of him. 

 

\-----

 

When Shiro opened the door to his temporary bedroom, it was to find Iverson stooped over where the healer lay on the other side of the bed. The man was just straightening when Shiro entered the room, a dark expression sliding off his face when he spotted Shiro. His eyes flashed and his jaw set. “You owe me extra for this,” he said, pointing down, “He’ll be useless for over a week.”

 

Shiro smothered the revulsion that flared at the man’s words. Technically, Iverson’s demand made his next steps simpler, if only tactically. He could make this work. He squared his own shoulders, mirroring the man’s militaristic demeanor.

“That’s actually what I came here to discuss, sir,” he said, keeping any hint of accusation out of his voice and falling easily back on habits he’d thought rusty with disuse.

 

“Really,” Iverson said, hard edges softening slightly, “That’s...refreshing.”

 

Shiro kept his face neutral, his words there to convey nothing but the facts. “We were hoping to keep your healer friend on retainer, in light of the fact that our companion is still injured.”

 

Iverson’s eyebrows narrowed, but Shiro continued, feigning obliviousness, “I don’t need to bother you, if you’d prefer to leave. Actually, I was hoping to speak with him directly, but I can wait, seeing as he’s resting.” There, Shiro thought, might as well try to test this man’s level of control when it comes to the healer. 

 

“I negotiate all his contracts,” he said sternly, confirming at least some of Shiro’s suspicions, “And he goes where I go. It’s a matter of safety for everyone involved.”

 

“Because of his dark magic,” Shiro said levelly, and Iverson’s eyebrow twitched. 

 

“Yes,” he said, lifting his chin, “It has a way of lulling everyone, including its users, into a false sense of security before it finds a way to strike. I’m specifically trained to keep that from happening.”

 

“He doesn’t...seem evil,” Shiro couldn’t help but reply, thinking of how the magic had felt the night before. He realized he’d gone too far almost immediately.

 

“They never do,” Iverson spat, lip curling, “But I’ve seen it for myself, the way it twists people until they think up is down and wrong is right. That  _ boy _ has done evil and would do it again if given the chance. Just be grateful I won’t let you find out the hard way like I did.”

 

Shiro struggled to reign in a surge of indignation at the man’s words, his artificial fist clenching unconsciously. This backward man from this backward planet had no idea what he and the other Paladins had seen and suffered. He knew darkness and dark magic, had felt its cruel touch first hand. He and his team weren’t as clueless as this man seemed to think they were. 

 

Belatedly, he noticed a strange touch on his magic, familiar only because he’d felt it the night before. It was the healer’s magic, reaching out to his own. Shiro glanced down and saw that the young man was still out cold. Even in sleep, the magic sought the connection. That was...confusing, to say the least. He shook his head. He’d sort it out later. Right now, he had to deal with the situation at hand. He was already letting it veer too far off course.

 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro said, regaining his calm control with difficulty, “As you’ve probably guessed, we’re not from this galaxy, and we aren't familiar with its magic or its rules. I didn’t realize this was a sore spot for you. You see,” and here, Shiro paused. He knew he was taking a risk, but this man had been recommended to them by this region’s contingent of the Coalition, so he had to be at least somewhat trustworthy, “We’re the Paladin’s of Voltron, and we need your help.” He turned the inside of his flesh-and-bone wrist up to reveal the v-shaped mark that proved the truth of what he said. Any Coalition member would recognize it for what it was.

 

Iverson’s eyes widened and his face paled. His jaw went slack and Shiro was hit with a whiff of minty breath. “You…” he said disbelievingly, “ _ You’re _ the Paladins of Voltron?”

 

“I mean-” Iverson sputtered, “ _ You _ I could believe, but the others…I had no idea.” Shiro had to fight to keep his own jaw from dropping when Iverson knelt in front of him bowing his head. “I have to apologize. I’m a loyal Coalitionist first and foremost. If I’d known…” he shook his head, “But yes, yes to whatever you need. And of course, I’ll accept any punishment you deem necessary..”

 

Shiro stared, unable to believe the abrupt and complete turnaround. If he’d known telling Iverson would produce this reaction, he would’ve told him sooner. Then again, Shiro amended at the sight of the disturbing, prostrate posture the formidable man had assumed, maybe not. There was something decidedly  _ off _ about this new planet they’d come across in their search for the missing Paladin. Or maybe -  _ hopefully  _ \- it was just this man. ”It’s alright,” he said uncomfortably, “I’ll...I’ll consider us even if you two will come as asked.”

 

Iverson looked up at him then, mouth hardening with determination. “I will,” he said, “Gladly.”

 

“Great,” Shiro said, suddenly sure he was going to regret this, “First things first, though, I need you to-”

 

Shiro stopped, as just then, a shrill screech of an alarm penetrated the air, making his blood ice in his veins. “What the-” Iverson stood up, eyes darting to Shiro’s. 

 

“Uh, guys, I think we need to move up those departure plans,” Hunk’s voice alerted them through the intercom system, “We’ve got incoming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you again for giving my fic a shot and reading this! It's earlier than two weeks, even with hella overtime at work! (HUrray!) 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left kudos/commented. They mean the world to me. I welcome any and all input, so please let me know what you think so far!
> 
> I struggled hardcore with this chapter. I wasn't sure how much of a complete jerk I was going to make Iverson, but ended up going all out I guess lol. I also struggled really hard to keep everyone IC, but I hope I managed halfway decently here. I still feel like it could use some work, but I've scrapped/rewritten so much that's it's practically Frankensteinian. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos. Happy reading/writing.
> 
> EDIT: Update 4/15/18: Hi there! Just wanted to let you guys know that I'm aware it's been 15 days since my last update. Live got busy. I guess that's what happens when one chapter is almost a week early, it makes me later on the next one lol. I'm 9 pages in and should be finished by tomorrow. You can expect an update either tomorrow night or Wednesday morning (depending on your time zone/ how long editing takes me).


	3. Chapter 3

“Wait here, don’t leave,” Shiro told Iverson. He didn’t wait for a response, trusting the man’s apparent respect for his authority to keep him behind. He darted out of his room, hurrying down the hall. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with this man being in the same room as him when he went into the vulnerable state required to Project his lion.

“Pidge, I’m coming to you and Allura,” Shiro informed the Green Paladin through his comm.

“Understood,” Pidge said. No doubt she’d gone through the logic herself and knew exactly why Shiro was heading to them first.

“What’s going on?” Allura’s voice startled Shiro when he made it to her room. She blinked groggily from her place on the bed, eyes bleary, face pale.

“Allura!” Shiro gasped, not believing his own eyes and ears for a moment. She’d been unconscious for so long, he’d started to prepare himself for the idea that she might never wake up. Even after everything the night before. “You’re awake.” He felt his jaw ache.

“Dubiously so.” she muttered, before levering herself up unsteadily into a sitting position. Her mouth tightened into a grimace.

“What’s going on?” She asked again.

“We have some unwelcome guests outside our bunker,” Pidge said. “Galran,“ she clarified, and Allura’s eyes hardened.

“Then I must put up shields for you all.” She said. Her hair started moving in a sourceless wind as she slowly began to gather her own power. He Altean marks were a dim mimicry of their normally radiant glow. Already, though, Shiro could feel the tell-tale signs of her powers wrapping themselves protectively around his physical form.

“Allura, wait,” Shiro said, heart leaping to his throat, “You’re too weak for that right now. You just woke up. You're still recovering.”

“Shiro,” Allura said, “I can’t afford to rest when you’re in danger.

“Besides,” she said, more softly, “I know my limits, I promise not to go beyond them. Now go. I’ll watch over you guys, as I’m meant to do.”

She held his gaze for a moment, her hard expression brooking no argument, and Shiro finally relented, even as his chest clenched with a burgeoning new anxiety. “Alright,” He said, reclining on the sofa next to Pidge so his body didn’t collapse while he entered the complex, dual-conscious state of Projecting into their lions. What had felt impossible once was practically second nature now. 

He couldn’t help the wave of relief he felt at her magic’s presence despite his reservations. They’d gone so long with only Coran’s more mundane protection, open and vulnerable since her fall, his shoulders already felt lighter at the knowledge of her guardianship. Beyond all that, though, there wasn’t much time to argue. He still needed to gather his powers for a projection.

He did it quickly, pressing his hand to the crystal hidden in his armor’s side pouch, and immediately felt the familiar, comforting presence of his astral companion. _ Black,  _ he said, projecting as much relief and warmth as he could into the words, even as he struggled to convey his urgency. The lions understood intentions and feelings better than any words, they’d come to realize.  _ We need your help. Invaders. _

He felt a low, rumbling growl as a reply, and knew with a certainty that couldn’t be expressed in any language that she was prepared to aid. “Okay,” Shiro said into the com to his team, holding on tightly to the connection with his lion. “Going astral in three...two... _ one” _

Shiro felt a corresponding distancing of awareness of his body as he simultaneously became hyper-aware of the astral plane beyond himself. He melded consciousness with his lion while maintaining his much more tenuous connection with his body.

His lion never failed to awe him, a large, glowing creature with a mane as dark as pitch. The long fur around its head and on its tail writhed and twisted like flames, as if made from pure energy. One by one, his fellow paladins joined him on the astral plane, all embodying their own lions’ forms. He knew from experience on the other side of things that on the physical plane, the lions would appear as giant, vibrant glowing spirits of lions. Larger than life. Alone they were forces of overwhelming destruction. As Voltron, they were virtually unstoppable.

Or so they’d thought.That had been before the Blue Paladin, Matt, had gotten separated from the team.

He felt a flicker of pain and longing through Pidge’s connection at the aching awareness of their missing companion, but it was quickly overtaken by determination and a steely spite that raised the hairs on the back of Shiro’s neck. He’d have to talk to her as soon as things slowed down, he told himself for the millionth time since her brother’s disappearance. If he let this go on much longer, it would fester into something darker and less controlled.

Together, their lions surged forward out of the astral plane and into the physical world just outside their bunker to meet the Galran intruders.

One unlucky soldier was close enough to feel the breath of Shiro’s lion on his skin, his eyes widening and his posture going rigid when he looked up. His boot squelched in the mud as he took a jerking step back.  “P-paladins! It’s the Voltron Paladins!” He screamed, just before Shiro clawed his chest with his lion’s paw, the glowing, semi-transparent arm looked almost ghostly, but it rent a very real gash in the soldier’s armor. There was a palpable sense of spreading panic among the soldiers.

“Hold strong!” A commanding voice shouted, even as the line of fighters in the front stepped forward to meet the incoming rush of the other three paladins’ lions. Their movements were erratic and less disciplined than usual. This was no well-trained force straight from Zarkon’s palace. A local group, then?

_ What’s with these guys?  _ Pidge’s sharp tone was easily recognizable through their connection.

_ Yeah,  _ Hunk asked, uncertain,  _ Aren’t they the ones who attacked  _ us?

Shiro had to agree. This group definitely wasn’t acting like the usual strike teams sent to target the Paladins.  _ Well, they’re attacking us now. We can figure it out later. Stay focused.  _ Shiro urged them over his own misgivings.

_ Yeah,  _ Pidge said,  _ Let’s make them rethink coming at us at all. _

They fell into the oncoming force with renewed energy at that, throwing every ounce of desperate, frightened frustration that had built over the past three weeks. Shiro swung hard and fast, not wasting a single movement. They’d just gotten the princess back, after facing much worse threats than this along the way. He wasn’t about to lose their current refuge to a group of underprepared Galrans.

_ We’re under attack!  _ Allura’s voice cut through their connection. It came through much steadier than it had been in her physical form. Shiro felt his and the others’ confusion before Allura’s next words stopped him cold.  _ Something just took out the wall to your room, Shiro. _

_ Oh no!  _  Hunk’s worry was almost physical,  _ The healer? _

_ I’m on it _ , Keith said before Shiro could react. Already, he felt the Red Paladin pulling from their connection to return to his physical body.

Shiro smothered his frustration with Keith’s lack of any forethought before it could seep into their connection. A soldier to his left took advantage of his momentary distraction, though, stabbing purple glowing blade straight at Shiro’s chest. He barely managed to dodge the blow, and grunted when its edge cut through his lion’s shoulder.  

As much as he wanted to return with Keith, he couldn’t afford to take his attention away from the fight at hand. He’d just have to hope Keith could return to his physical state and reorient himself fast enough to make a difference. In the meantime, he, Pidge, and Hunk would have to pick up the slack to keep these attackers at bay.

 

\-----

Iverson’s boots were wearing holes in the rough cement floor of the Black Paladin’s room, though it was the only sign he let show of his agitation. If it had been anyone other than a Paladin of Voltron ordering him like that, he would’ve balked. But he knew his place, unlike many others out there. He followed orders when he received them. He glared at the darkling curled up pathetically on the floor, lip curling. Some might never learn proper discipline no matter how much good influence they had.

The only warning Iverson had that their location wasn’t entirely secure was a barely audible, low humming noise at the edge of his hearing. Then suddenly, the entire room shook with the force of an explosion that tore apart the far wall, deadly debris flinging from the detonation point. One large rock struck the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and one of its bulbs shattered apart with a flare of blinding light, leaving the surviving bulbs flickering erratically. Iverson was thrown off his feet and into the wall behind him, the breath punched from his lungs in a rush. His vision flickered briefly back to a different time, a different battle, and his veins hummed with a surge of electrifying energy.

Waiting hidden underground like a coward while the Paladins fought had been difficult.  _ This  _ was going to be as easy as breathing. Dust clouded the air, and he could see a mass of shapes moving through the flickering light.

He pulled out his blaster and let out a defiant cry at the sight of the first soldiers rushing through the jagged hole they’d torn through the wall. They must’ve dug all the way underground, he realized. He wondered just how long they’d been at it to make it all this way without detection. He fired three shots rapid fire at the first body to come through and watched with satisfaction as they slumped forward, their torso hanging halfway over the jagged edge.

He ducked to avoid return fire, diving behind the bed to land next to his slave, who was breathing rapidly, his eyes still closed. He’d been lucky enough to be shielded from the brunt of the blast by the bed, though his skin was sooty. It figured the ungrateful darkling would stay unconscious when he was most needed, a coincidence that was reccurring with disturbing frequency lately. No doubt a result of the dark magic’s subtle influence. No matter, Iverson was used to picking up the slack of others, and he wasn’t about to let these Galran scum infiltrate a stronghold of the Paladins of Voltron.

There was a brief lull in the incoming shots, and Iverson leaped to let off another rapid succession of shots, taking down two more of the Galrans. He dove back for the cover of the bed, but not before one of the soldiers threw something over the side of it. The instant before the object burst open, Iverson recognized it for what it was, but he didn’t cover his eyes fast enough to avoid the searing light that burnt a brand of agony into his retina.

He let out a cry, dropping his gun instinctively to cover his face with both hands. “Damn you!” He shouted, hand already scrabbling to the holster in his boot in a motion so practiced he didn’t need to see to unclip the weapon. His vision was a confusing blur of swirling lights that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he blinked.

There was a stirring of air behind him, and he twisted without thinking to fire. “Take that you piece of shit,” He growled low when he heard the unseeable attacker fall over with a grunt.

“Master!” Iverson heard the darkling cry, just before a body struck him and threw him to the floor. He felt a hot rush of air stir his hair as a barely-avoided projectile of some sort torpedoed over them.

For one of the few times in his life, Iverson was at a loss as to what to do. It was only a brief moment of indecision, but the fact that it was there at all set his teeth on edge. Iverson heard the telltale signs of heavy boots clambering over the ledge and approaching them. They were surrounded. He touched his finger to the tattoo on the back of his hand.

As much as he hated the feeling of the dread magic brushing its rotten tendrils against his senses, it was fast becoming apparent that there wasn’t much choice. Depleted as the darkling was, Iverson would need to use whatever was available to cover their retreat. The magic worked exponentially more efficiently on the offensive anyway. It wouldn’t take much to turn the tables.

The darkling’s body began to tremble, and Iverson threw the mewling bodyweight off himself with a grunt of effort.

“No, master, please-!” The darkling pleaded. Even now, of all times, when their lives hung in the balance, he clung to his own selfish well-being. Typical darkling.

“Quit whining!” Iverson ordered, “It’s our only option.”

Iverson didn’t wait for a response from the darkling before he activated the tattoo’s powers. Instantly, his sight was restored, though it took even his experienced mind a moment to reconcile the fact that he was seeing through the darkling’s eyes and not his own. The darkling’s movements were uncharacteristically stiff and sluggish, no doubt from the aftereffects of the recent healing.The darkling was looking at Iverson's own face, and he turned the darkling's head to take in the incoming threat.

There was at least a dozen more soldiers filing in, the odds impossibly skewed.

“There he is!” one of the soldiers shouted, pointing straight at the body Iverson controlled.

“What’s with his eyes?” another soldier asked, alarmed.

“It’s the tattoo!” An overly excited voice crowed, “It’s the darkling! Quick, take him!”

Iverson couldn’t waste any more time. With a sick swell of revulsion in his gut, he pulled at the darkling’s magic, bending it to move offensively, and let the tendrils leap out at the nearest soldiers, yanking the life force out of them with cruel efficiency. He shuddered inwardly, but he couldn’t let his compunctions hold him back. This is what he was here for. He did what needed to be done, no matter the cost to his conscience. That was his sacrifice to the Coalition’s cause.

The other soldiers shouted in surprise, and Iverson reached to draw on the life energy he’d just pulled from the enemy. Already, he could feel the energy loosening the darkling’s muscles and easing the tenderness.  He moved the darkling’s body back behind the cover of the bed as the enemy combatants reached for their guns.

“No!” the same overly excited voice from before commanded, “Our orders were to take him alive.”

Iverson narrowed the darkling’s eyes at the information. He’d assumed this force was after the Paladins. Was it possible they’d come specifically for the darkling healer? He could feel the darkling’s consciousness pushing against his own, struggling to retake control of his own faculties, but he brushed it aside easily with the power of the tattoo.

Regardless of their goals, these men couldn’t be allowed to survive.

Realizing there was no danger of death for the darkling, he sent him back out from cover and flung another array of tendrils at them. With an ease that made Iverson shudder, the life force was ripped from their bodies as well, and as one they fell to the ground.

Iverson shed the darkling’s body with a shiver of relief. The darkling’s knees buckled and his frame folded in on itself as he fell to the floor. Iverson wasn’t unduly worried about possible damage by now. If anything, the amount of life energy he’d pulled from the soldiers would help the darkling recover from the poison. Once he woke, he’d probably feel even better than before. Lucky ingrate. He’d no doubt wallow in self-pity after this.  

Iverson, on the other hand, was left to suffer the aftereffects of the unsavory powers of the tattoo.  He couldn’t seem to rid himself of the disgusting, cloying sense of the darkling’s power. His skin felt covered in the wretched stuff, a lingering residue oozing across his senses. It made him want to retch. Sometimes, he swore it had a mind of its own, seeking to prod and unnerve him whenever he opened himself up to its influence. Luckily, he was made of sterner stuff than that and pulled himself together enough to sit up and blink through his now-recovering eyes to assess the situation.

He pulled himself up to his legs, scowling at the way they shook, and surveyed the downed forms of their attackers strewn about the floor. He stepped over to check each of their pulses and put to rest any lingering doubt of each and every one of their fates. He’d reached the second to last one when, just before he’d reached to check, the soldier jerked away from his hand, and he grabbed him by the sleeve of his uniform before he could twist away.

The soldier panted fearfully as he struggled to escape, but weakened as he was by the dark magic, he was no match for Iverson. He dragged him closer until he had both hands affixed to the sides of his face, then, once he had proper leverage, he twisted.

“No!” an unfamiliar voice called out just as the deed was done. "We could've used him for information."

Iverson turned to see the recently healed woman,  _ Princess Allura _ , he now realized with the context of the Paladins, leaning heavily against the doorframe. It took him a moment to force his mind to reconcile the taint of dark magic still clinging to his skin with the awe at the sight of the Princess of Altea, second only to King Alfor as leader of the Coalition.  

“Your Highness,” Iverson said as the now dead soldier’s head slipped from his hands. He accorded her the respect she was due by her position, dropping to his knees and bowing his head.

“What…” The Princess said, sounding winded, “What the hell happened here? That energy, it…” Her muscles convulsed, even as her eyes took in the devastation before her with the efficiency of a seasoned commander. Apparently, she could sense the dark magic with whatever divine power drove the Paladins of Voltron.

“It’s the darkling’s power,” Iverson said, his voice heavy with a sudden onset of exhaustion now that the rush of battle was behind him.

“Darkling?” She asked, and Iverson realized she must not have been up long enough to be briefed properly on the situation.

“A dark magic user,” he explained, “There’s no need to be alarmed, though. I keep the powers in check. There’s no danger of them being turned against us.”

“I...That’s…’dark magic?’” the Princess asked.

“It’s a dangerous, insidious thing, Your Highness,” he said, glad for her more receptive response to his information. Maybe the Paladins could be better reasoned with once he’d helped rid them of their ignorance. “But under well-trained supervision, they can be turned to good. The darkling’s power is what healed your wound, in fact.”

“Oh,” the Princess said, then straightened even as her hand strayed unconsciously to where her wound had been - or rather, apparently still was. “I’d like to see this…’darkling.’” She said the last word like it was foreign to her.

 

“He’s over there,” Iverson said, pointing to where the boy lay crumpled on the floor.

 

The princess’s eyes followed his indicated direction, then widened in horror when she spotted him.

“You said he was the one that saved my life?” the princess asked, and Iverson could sense an undertone of something he didn’t much like in her question. “What’s he doing on the floor like that?” She demanded, striding forward, all signs of weakness erased by hard disapproval. “I should think my savior would be treated better than a discarded tool.”

She knelt down next to the darkling, hitching her arms under his shoulders to pull him up. Her muscles shook with the strain, and Iverson hurried forward to help her, despite his disgust.

“Your Highness,” he said, though he helped to lift the boy’s feet, “You don’t need to worry. He’ll be fine.”

The Princess turned an icy stare on him, and Iverson had never seen such utter contempt conveyed so vividly with an expression alone. “I’ll decide what I need and need not worry about.” She said, “And I’m not in the habit of mistreating those who’ve done me a good turn.”

Iverson sighed inwardly. Clearly, his hope had been misplaced. Were the Paladins of Voltron really so ignorant of the ways of dark magic? He’d have thought that, fighting against the Galran infestation as they had, that they’d be better informed. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said. “My apologies.” She outranked him, after all. Besides, even if for the wrong reasons, her actions weren’t without some logic. The darkling probably would recover more quickly if left in a more comfortable position. All this misplaced sympathy for the boy was making him a bit irrationally defensive. That was okay. He’d explain things properly to them, then they’d understand.

\----

Keith returned to self-awareness with a gasp, back arching as he struggled to get used to how his own body functioned again. He wasn’t sure how long his reorientation took, but when he finally felt less like he was wearing an oversized shoe and more like he was in his own body, he sat up. He swung his legs over the other side of the bed, hand already unsheathing the blade from his belt.

He raced straight to Shiro’s door, grabbing the doorway and using his momentum to swing into the room. All he saw upon entry, though, was the prone form of the healer being laid out by Iverson and Princess Allura. That and over a dozen dead Galrans.

“Allura!” he cried out. He’d felt her protection around his mundane body during their defense of the bunker, but he hadn’t expected her to go clomping around the bunker exhausting herself even further. After everything she’d been through in the past weeks, and extending the effort it took for her to put up her magical barriers for them, she had to be pushing her limits, if not well beyond them.

“Calm down, Red Paladin,” The Princess said, in the weary tone only someone who’d had to deal with the same objection multiple times could effect. “I’m quite alright.”

“Like hell you’re alright,” he said, heart leaping as the Princess swayed and tried to cover it up by setting down with less grace than she normally would on the bed beside the prone healer. He hurried to her side, his heart clogging his throat the same way it had when she was first injured. “You can’t even stand.”

“Your-” Iverson started and Keith shot him a death glare,

“You have nothing to do with this conversation,” Keith said, temper flaring red hot in his chest. “All you’ve managed to do since you got here is be annoying while that guy does all the work.” He jabbed a finger at the healer.

“My apologies,” the much taller man said, though it was clear his calm tone was taking some effort “I’ve failed to show you your due respect.” Here, he bowed his head to Allura and Keith, and they both exchanged a glance while the man’s eyes were still downward. “But with all such respect, anything he does is thanks solely to my efforts. Not to mention the fact that I helped head off a major assault on your base here. And if you allow me, I think I can be of further assistance.”

Keith snorted and pretended not to notice when the man side-eyed him. This guy’s tune had changed pretty abruptly. He wondered what Shiro had said to bring that on.

“The Black Paladin informed me who you all were,” the man said as if reading the question on his face. Well, then.

Allura gave him an uncertain nod, and Keith watched her closely. Obviously, she’d gotten the same weird vibes from this guy as the rest of them. Now that she was awake, even as weak as she clearly was, he had to admit she looked worlds better than she had the night before. “We made an agreement. I would be accompanying you with the healer,” he gestured to the unconscious form on the bed, and Keith was momentarily distracted from the man’s words as he finally took in the prone shape. He’d been so worried about Allura these past few weeks and then last night when it had felt like their last effort had been for nothing, this was the first time he actually got a good look at the healer.

He wasn’t sure if it was because he was finally paying attention or if this was new since the last time he’d seen him, but there was a twisting, unnerving aura oozing off the healer. It felt like...it was hard to describe, but if he had to compare it to anything, he’d say it gave him the same feeling he’d had looking at the miserable caged animals back on one of the planets they’d visited. Now that he noticed the sensation though, he couldn’t ignore it, and it was starting to make him sick.

He turned away abruptly, struggling to bring his attention back to the conversation at hand.

 

“...might be able to help us,” Iverson was saying, and Keith could see Allura struggling to size the man up in her exhausted state. 

_ We’re coming back in,  _ he heard Shiro say through their connection. Even in his physical form as he was, Keith could still hear the communications from his fellow Paladins.

_ That’s a relief.  _ Allura said, and Keith felt her easing her protections and watched as her shoulders sagged. She wouldn’t normally let her barriers down so soon, and it was a testament to just how exhausted she was that she did so. Slowly, Keith’s now-distant connection to the others grew even more distant until he was barely aware of it at the borders of his consciousness.

It felt like forever before the other Paladins finally returned and made their way to Shiro’s room.

“Now that you’re all here,” Allura said, “We can discuss our options for where to go next. I’m not sure how long it will take for Coran and me to recover enough to power our ship to get us back home, and Iverson here says he has some friends that might be able to shelter us while we do so.”

\----

_ “Lance, honey, it's time to get up,” his mom’s voice cut through the fog of his sleep with an almost physical form. Even half asleep, she was a force of nature in his life. _

_ Lance shifted, wriggling out from under the burrow he’d made out of his blanket. He slowly blinked open sleep blurred eyes. He felt a smile stretch his mouth open wide at the sight of his mom staring down at him fondly. “Good morning, sweetie,” She said smoothing his overlong hair out of his eyes. It was like a weed, always growing faster than his mom had time to cut it. Once, he’d tried cutting it himself so she wouldn’t have to. They’d both agreed he should wait till he was older to try again. _

_ “You wanna get up and help mama wake your brothers and sisters?” _

_He frowned, giving the ritual proposition its due consideration. Then he glanced over at the still sleeping form of his brother, sprawled loose-limbed on the bed across from him. He wanted to make sure no one would overhear. “Yes, mama_ ** _,_** _” he gave his mom his biggest gap-toothed smile, “But can I have an extra egg for breakfast?”_

_ The corners of his mom’s eyes crinkled, and she laughed softly, “I think I can manage that for such a helpful boy.” _

_ Lance grinned, then ran over to his brother’s bed to start fulfilling his end of the bargain. He was the second oldest in the family, and he liked to help is mom and dad with his younger siblings as best he could. His oldest sister was only a few years older than him, but whatever. She liked to act like she was an adult already, which was really annoying sometimes. He’d wait to wake her last. She’d started acting all weird and extra lame lately, and was always grumpy when he tried to wake her up. _

_ By the time he and his mom had woken up and herded the rest of his siblings to get dressed and set the breakfast table, his father and sister were just stumbling out of their respective bedrooms, both of their hair askew. From his spot buttering the fresh bread beside his mom, Lance swore he could see some dried up drool on the side of his dad’s mouth. _

_ “Yuck, dad, go wash your face,” he said at the sight of him. _

_ “Stop being so rude, Lance,” his older sister, Maribel, piped up as she rubbed the sleep from her own eyes, “He just woke up. Give him a break.” _

_ Lance stuck his tongue out at her, and she made a rude gesture with her hand in return. Lance’s mouth dropped, scandalized, and glanced up at his mom, who was too busy to notice. _

_ “Awe, he didn’t mean anything by it, did you Lance?” his dad said, ruffling Lance’s hair and mussing it all up. _

_ “Dad,” Lance complained, drawing the word out into three syllables. _

_ “What?” his mom asked innocently, sneaking up beside him to ruffle his hair as well, and Lance giggled even as he tried to shoo away her teasing hands. _

_ “You’re messing up my hair!” he said, slipping away to take his seat between his younger brother and his eldest sister. _

_ His parents laughed at that, but Lance knew they were only teasing, so he decided not to be too annoyed with them. Besides, his mom had made him an extra egg as promised, winking conspiratorially at him as she passed. Lance did his best not to look straight at Maribel, who was freakishly good at telling when he was hiding something. He guessed she probably got that from Mom. _

_ “So what does my devilishly handsome husband have planned today?” Lance’s mom asked. _

_ “Well, I was thinking I’d take Maribel on her first Graya fungus hunt.” He said, and Maribel’s face lit up. Their dad, who knew how to do everything there was to do, had been taking Maribel on some of the jobs lately. Lance pouted. He didn’t see why he still couldn’t come with them. _

_ “Darkling!” a harsh voice cut through the air like a whip crack, and everyone in the room jumped as though struck by one. They all turned toward the source of the voice. It was a tall, imposing man with an eye squinted shut and a nasty scowl on his face. Lance knew without knowing why that he had to get away from him. _

_ The harsh-voiced man strode straight toward Lance, and Lance jumped from his chair to hide behind his mom. “What are you doing?” the man demanded, and Lance started to shake. “Get over here,  _ now  _.” _

_ Lance shook his head in mute terror.  _ Mama, please don’t make me go with him,  _ he pleaded, unable to unstick the words from his throat. _

_ Without warning, though, his mother disappeared entirely, leaving a deep, pitch black hole in the floor where she’d been standing just a moment before. Lance felt like his stomach had plummeted down that hole after her. His eyes darted desperately, unable to spot any sign of his mom. The man was still stepping toward him, and Lance backed away. _

_ “You’re coming with me,” he said. _

_ He looked at his dad. “Papa, please,” he said, voice quivering.   _

_ His father just shook his head, brows drawn. “I’m sorry, Lance, I’ve done everything I could. I’m so sorry.” _

_ “No,” Lance was whimpering now. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything to stop this? “No, please. I don’t want to go. Where’s mama?” _

_ He glanced at his siblings, who were all staring at him wide-eyed and frozen with terror. All of them except Maribel, who glared at him, her arms crossed. “You have to go.” _

_ “But, I…” Lance protested weakly, heart-stopping as his back hit the wall behind him. There was nowhere left to go. _

_ “Come here,” the harsh-voiced man growled, features stretching and melting into something nightmarish and grotesque as he grew closer. He reached toward Lance, his fingers lengthening into claws that bit into the back of Lance’s hand as he yanked him toward him. “Do as I say,  _ now.”

_ “Go with him,” his sister said, her eyes had now taken on a diabolical glow, “It’s the least you can do. After you killed her.” _

_ “What?” Lance gaped, understanding but willing himself not to. _

_ “You killed her,” another voice said, this time it was his younger brother. _

_ “Why did you kill her?” His youngest sister wailed, voice crumpling and tears streaming down her face. And Lance couldn’t answer. He wanted to cry too, but nothing was working right. _

_ He couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe anymore. _

_ He struggled to get out of the man’s grasp, and by sheer luck he managed it, only to slip and fall straight into the gaping hole left by his mom’s departure. And suddenly he was falling. Falling and falling forever. He knew without knowing how he knew that the pitch black hole went on forever. He wanted to scream, to thrash, and fight. Do  _ something  _ to save himself. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t in control of his own body. _

Mama, please! Help me!  _ He finally called out with his mind, desperate. _

_ But there was no answer, only the endless gaping hole and the sickening sensation of falling, falling, and falling forever. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Thank you again for reading/leaving comments and kudos! I really appreciate it! Like a lot a lot. Work has been extra stressful (if exciting) lately, and it's always super nice to get some positive reinforcement here lol
> 
> Sorry this was a little late, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. 
> 
> Thanks again, and happy reading!


End file.
